


Don't Forget Me

by LovelyLittleFreckle



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 12:22:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5967310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyLittleFreckle/pseuds/LovelyLittleFreckle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Red and Liz are in hiding when she discovers a private notebook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When they had reached the safe house there hadn’t been time to look around and there wasn’t much to see in the sweaty midnight darkness. She remembered the lilting rasp of frogs and thinking there must be water nearby. The dampness of a humid June still lingered in the air and settled immediately onto her skin. She hated going to bed with the sweat of the day still on her skin but her body gave her no choice – she sunk into the mattress, body and soul. She remembered that familiar feeling of sleep constricting around her like a fist. She wondered if she’d ever rest properly again; or if she’d ever known what that was like in the first place. She couldn’t remember the last time sleep felt like falling. It felt more like walking the plank. Like giving herself over to an abyss.   
Waking up screaming was not new to her; as a child Sam would bring her warm milk in bed, not realizing that it would effectively ruin it for her for the rest of her life. It reminded her of his bumbling and sincere care for her, but also made her throat feel raw and her heart begin to panic. Tom had tried to comfort her but like Sam before him he could never quite relate to what haunted her, not when the threat wasn’t tangible. He was always a little too simple in that way – but in hindsight, the more likely explanation was that he didn’t care sincerely. Sitting up with her those nights was all part of his job. The night shift.   
Although her throat was still raw from screaming, she felt peculiarly rested. Her limbs were sore from stillness and her joints popped themselves awake as she stretched under the blankets. She had to peel herself from the sheets, her raw skin irritable against their softness. The wrinkling of the sheets left pink and white indentations in the flesh of her arms and legs that she could see faintly in the light that was peeking in from the curtains. Dust twinkled in the streaming sunlight and rested on the book shelves, the nightstands, the lamp. She had no idea if it was sunrise or sunset, but the creeping glow of a weary sun was streaming in all the same.   
He had slept there last night, right next to her. She faintly remembered the comfort that had settled over her feeling his weight next to her, the sensation of his presence weaving itself into her consciousness like a stitch holding together the rough tatters that were left of her. They hadn’t touched. They didn’t need to.   
She was still wearing the under layers of her clothes from the day before… she wanted to burn what was left of them. There would not come a day that she would willingly relive the circumstances under which she shot Tom Connolly. If she had to do it over again, she would pull the trigger every time, but the crack of her gunshot echoing through the marble banquet hall served only to remind her of how close she’d come to letting him live. How badly she had wanted to hold fast to Cooper’s voice and all that remained of the Elizabeth Keen she’d known herself to be. But more than any guilt she might ever face, she didn’t want to remember a world with Tom Connolly in it. No doubt he was being remembered fondly by the media at that very moment on every available channel – everyone but a few people in the world blind to the dead-eyed hatred that he passed off as charisma. The thought made her sick.   
For now she would imagine, for a few fleeting and breathless moments as she sat on the edge of an unfamiliar bed, that none of it had happened. She was just in a house. Away. On vacation. Taking a break from her normal life. She cloaked herself with the memory of the last time she’d felt normal, used it to guide her through the fantasy. She could imagine herself in the company of a faceless but comforting companion, easy and unthreatening. In a past life it might have been Tom – whisking her away to some little cottage in the woods for the weekend, tisking at her for even the mere mention of work. Maybe a pot of coffee would be brewing at an odd hour. Maybe she would be poking around the bathroom sampling the travel sized soaps and lotions. The sound of a rustling newspaper. Waves crashing on a beach.  
Instead she heard nothing. The floor creaked beneath her as she made her way to the door, the raw wood floors hobbling her sleep-numb feet. From the looks of the interior they were in a cabin, warm toned oak surrounded her, womb-like, on all sides, filling the air with the pleasant, settled scent of the woods. And coffee. She hadn’t imagined it after all. She stepped into the little living room off the bedroom and saw that it looked over a surprisingly grand back porch, a lush grassy slope and finally a quiet view of a lake. Through the open shutters of the windows she could hear the water lapping the banks.  
She hadn’t seen him at first, but his bare feet giving him away, propped and crossed on the wicker ottoman. Steam rose from a mug that he had placed on the table next to him, positioned next to his matching chair so he could look out over the water. That is, if he had been awake. She crept up behind him, careful not to let her footsteps disturb his sleep. She listened for a moment to his delicate snore and the puffs of air leaving his lips; he couldn’t have been asleep long. His brow showed a hint of thought and she wondered if he might be dreaming. A delicate pen, likely worth more than her last car, laid over the pages of an open Moleskine notebook. He’d been writing a letter.   
Before he awoke with a start, she was sure she’d made out the word “Lizzie” scrawled at the top of the cream-white page in blood red ink, a stream of prose following it. The image smoldered in her mind as he closed his notebook upon waking. The moment of startled realization on his face didn’t linger and blossomed into a slow smile upon seeing that it was her.   
“Lizzie,” he said. “How did you sleep?”  
“Relatively well, considering,” she said, taking a seat next to him.   
“It must be something about this place,” he said, gesturing to the view. “Something about the south, I don’t know what it is. Could be the chicory they’re so fond of down here. Caffeine free.” He shook his head, drawing the inside of his lip between his teeth thoughtfully and scowling. “The first time I stayed here I thought I might be having an aneurism. Throbbing headaches day and night! Caffeine withdrawal. And here I was drinking that chicory thinking it might help.” He chuckled. “Herbs. As coffee. I can’t imagine what possesses people.”  
“Is that what this is?” Liz asked, pointing at his mug.   
“No, no,” Red said. “This is Folgers. Or as I like to call it, my reminder to do some grocery shopping. Would you like some? A little Irish crème and you’ll forget that it came from a can.”  
“Isn’t it a little early, even for you?” she said, looking around for a clock.   
“It’s 7:30 in the evening, Lizzie. You’ve been sleeping straight through the day.”  
“I’ll take a large,” she said, rubbing her eyes and feeling rather sheepish. On any other day she might have wondered where they were and how he’d chosen their location. But she was content to let that information go undiscussed under the circumstances. Perhaps it was better if she didn’t know.   
Red groaned a bit as he got up from his chair, wincing slightly over his shoulder. He babied it with his hand a bit, trying to do so out of her view. A pang of reality gored her chest. It wasn’t so long ago that he’d almost died.   
“Are you alright? Have you been doing the stretches that Kate told you to do?” she said, peeking over the back of her chair. Her eyes grazed over the cover of his notebook lustfully; she couldn’t violate his privacy but she felt that childlike itch in her chest that she knew wouldn’t go away until she saw inside the cover. It may as well have been tucked under a Christmas tree.   
“I haven’t thought much of it,” he said, the gurgling of poured liquid and the heavy smell of coffee wafting through the air.   
“You need to do them, you know,” she said, settling back in her seat.   
“I don’t mean to sound like a child but they aren’t very comfortable,” he said, handing her the cup and taking his place again with a barely muffled grunt.   
“That’s how you know they’re working,” Liz said. “Certainly someone who knows enough about the human body to do a field transfusion knows about how the body heals. And I don’t imagine this is your first encounter with a bullet.”  
“It’s not,” he said. “But I’m older now than I was then. It wears on you. The mind gives in.”  
“You are barely eligible for the senior discount and Denny’s, don’t talk like that. It’s unbecoming.”  
Red chuckled, but his eyes were distant. A poignant silence ebbed back into the room and it crackled with their shared anxiety. The thought of Red giving up, whatever that might mean, made her eyes prickle with tears. If she didn’t control her breath, her chest would start to heave and she’d become short of breath. And then he’d know. Perhaps that was best. They were bound to lay their cards on the table sometime. It might as well be on her terms.   
“You can’t talk like that,” she said quietly as she watched what was left of his ambient smile fade. “It scares me, you giving in. And I can help you but just… take it easy on me. Just for a little while.”  
He moved his hand to hers like it was guided by wire, not stealing so much as a glance her way. He found her by instinct.   
“It won’t always be this way, Lizzie,” he said just above a whisper, the gravel of his voice gliding mellifluous over the sound of waking crickets. And she believed him.   
But for a fleeting, wild moment, in the flickering dusk, she wished it could be.


	2. Chapter 2

Once night fell, the color of their drinks became lighter and lighter and gave up all pretense of being coffee by 9:30 – their cups were full of the liquor they’d been using to hide the taste. They shared pleasant conversation, and only the most ambiguous mentions of what their immediate plans may be. Each time she brought up their current situation he waved her off, assuring her that it wasn’t worth worrying about until their supplies were delivered in the morning. It wasn’t as if there was anything that could be done until morning. Banter and laughter came easier as the evening wore on, despite of - or perhaps due to - their strange and precarious situation. It felt delusional… but the liquor made it easier for her to pretend. They were just on vacation. No one was after them. While he spoke about his various travels, she let her mind wander - let it think up wild circumstances under which she and Red would be away from the FBI together. An undercover mission perhaps? A forced vacation due to some technical difficulty that couldn’t be fixed for a few days? She found herself not listening to his words, just the tone and inflection of his voice. The low rumbling rasp. She watched his breathing slow… his eyes become heavy.   
“We should really get some sleep,” she said softly. Red nodded in agreement, collecting their cups and placing them in the sink. Her eyes darted to his notebook, still sitting on the small table between them. He made no move to retrieve it.   
“I’ll be here on the couch if you need me,” he said casually. She nodded. “A courier will be coming by at 10:00am with a delivery. Don’t feel that you need to be up by then, though. I know you haven’t been resting well.”  
“I think after last night, I’m all caught up,” she said. Truthfully, she wasn’t tired at all. But after they said their goodnights, she laid on top of the sheets in the little bedroom with her eyes closed anyway. She counted slowly. Fifteen minutes would be nine hundred seconds… she’d give it one thousand. She debated, imagining the pages of his notebook under her fingertips. She imagined herself satisfied, but never imagined what the pages might contain. Her mind couldn’t conjure even one likely possibility. She never hoped for a thing.   
And then there was the guilt, scratching at her chest like an anxious dog. Maybe she wanted to violate his privacy the way he had hers so many times. But her feelings for him now were much more tender… too tender to simply want to see him hurt. She had to admit that she wanted to see just for herself. It’s not like he was that great at opening up to her on his own accord. If she wanted in, she’d have to force her way. She’d come to terms with it long ago, so she might as well take the opportunity she’d been afforded.  
One thousand.   
She walked lightly toward the living room wincing at each creak the floor made under her feet. Irrationally she shushed herself, making tight fists in her frustration. What am I doing? What in the hell am I doing? She thought for a moment about turning back. But she couldn’t. She peeked around the corner and found Red fast asleep. He snored softly, the little puffs of air escaping from his lips barely audible above the cool breeze from the lake blowing in the windows.   
She crept toward the chairs they’d been sitting on all evening, eyes intent on the book. She curled her feet under her on the chair farthest from him and reached eagerly for it like a gift. But it would take more courage to open it. She breathed deeply, stealing one last glance to make sure he was asleep. Finding his chest still rising and falling languidly, she opened the cover.   
“Dear Lizzie,”…


	3. Chapter 3

Dear Lizzie,   
If you are reading this, it is at my request and only upon the instance of my death. With circumstances such as they are the possibility may arise quicker than I’d hoped. If this comes about due to a situation where both of our lives were endangered, know that I willingly and with clear forethought offered by life for yours. I want you to remain calm and keep in mind the following:  
First, Mr. Kaplan will get a hold of you. A series of events will occur that if executed properly will serve to protect you in my absence both physically and financially.   
I am loathe to force you into a new life of sorts but with the Fulcrum in play and your name on national news, I am asking you to please assume the identity provided for you for at least one full year. Should Mr. Kaplan be unavailable, anyone who reaches out to you referring to you by the name “Julia Kemp” will be someone who you can trust.   
Any plane that you board must be one of the following tail numbers: N5847, N2674 or N2258. If the tail numbers are not one of these, you must kill the person piloting the plane. I can assure you that they mean to do the same to you if you don’t. In that instance I am sorry that you will have to go through that while already under duress but remember to keep a steady hand. Remain calm.   
Passports, an ID and proper documentation will be made for you within hours of my death. In the likelihood that you will be asked to reside in a foreign country you will need to learn the native language at a conversational level very quickly, there will be no time for you to learn it yourself. Provisions will be made through conventional means or there will be a trusted person appointed to tutor you as soon as you arrive. I have taken into account the three other languages that you speak fluently – every effort will be made to place you in a country where they are spoken to save you this trouble.   
Should Mr. Kaplan be unable to provide you with account numbers, call the Swiss National Bank and the National Bank of Stockholm. Produce for them the documents I will have provided to you giving them reason to believe that you are my wife and sole heir. Transfer the money to a local bank over the course of a few months. No more than $10,000 at a time. Provisions are in place to keep you from being audited but I hope not to use them – since Luli died I’ve relied on a secondary accountant whom I trust but he is also a terrible womanizer.   
There is a race horse named Rosencrantz in a stable in New Hampshire – he is yours. I don’t anticipate that you will take up equestrianism but the horse is worth upwards of $30,000. Should you need the money a broker can be reached through Mr. Kaplan who will help you make the proper arrangements for sale of the horse.   
Know, dear Lizzie, that our time together as been a true pleasure. If I die in the pursuit of keeping you safe, know that I did so with pride. You are destined for the best in life and in time it will come.   
Always,   
Red


	4. Chapter 4

Liz realized hadn’t taken a breath for the last half of the letter. Between the lack of oxygen and the shock, she felt faint and struggled to take a deep but ragged breath. It terrified her that Red had felt the need to pen that letter and its contents. She would need time to digest the implications for herself but for now she needed to breathe steadily. She needed to stay calm. Her fingers idly flipped to the next page and there started a new letter, this one looked much less practiced. The handwriting was far less legible and she could see from a cursory look that he had crossed some things out, added things in. She read on:  
Dearest Lizzie –   
It is 3pm and as I write this you are asleep in the next room. If I’m being honest I’ve thought of this occasion many times, but now that it’s a reality I can only think of the many ways I’ve wronged you and that it’s under those circumstances that we find ourselves alone together. You are miles away from everything you know and in reality you’ve been away from it much longer. Before you were even old enough to remember, a confluence of events led us to each other and I changed your life inexorably. I fear daily that you are the highlight of my life and that I may in turn be the end of yours.   
The world will remember me the way they want to, in the way that makes sense. I don’t delude myself into thinking that they will think of me as anything other than a criminal. No one still living, save a few, will likely remember me in any other context. Even those I love, though I’ve tried to be of service to them, have been put in the way of death too many times to remember me as a truly good person without some very sizeable exceptions. And perhaps I am not. But for the first time in a long time, I’d like to try.   
I hope that before I die that I will let you know me. I hope I have the courage to allow it. And that you will have the interest to hear. Something about a bullet to the chest makes you start thinking about things differently and long ago a good friend told me that when you look back on your life you can determine its worth based on those who loved you. I know that in my life I have loved… but I don’t know that I ever was loved in return by anyone who wasn’t being deceived. I hope that I can introduce myself to you and that I can know you in return. I said to you when we met that you were my only hope at a second chance – in truth, you are the first real chance I have to let anyone love me. I hope that even a sliver of me is worthy.   
Because I have loved you, Lizzie. God the ways I’ve loved you. Both selflessly and selfishly, covetous and protective. But most of all I know I’ve loved you purely and with no expectation. Though I’ve let myself hope. At times I found myself encouraged that maybe one day it would be requited but I hold out no lucid hope after all we’ve been through. No good man could expect that from you in my position. I’ve even scared at the thought. Your proximity to me is lethal and there is no way for me to love you that won’t endanger you. But that ship sailed long ago. And thus I find myself a lonely old man, wishing for you to love me even though it’s the most selfish thing I’ll ever do.   
I said to you today that I didn’t want you to be like me. My hope was for the opposite – in which you would find a way to change me, that the light emanating from you would cast itself on me and make me good. I am horrified by the idea that instead I have stolen some part of that light, tainted it even. But I trust that you did the right thing today. For I know better than anyone that doing the right thing may not look the same to others, even those who know you. I trust you, Lizzie. I see that light in you still. And what little of it you’ve kindled in me keeps me warm.   
You’ve been asleep for hours now. It has afforded me the chance to think about you without distraction as I’ve done many times. Knowing that I’m not dreaming and that you are safe and so close to me is a comfort you couldn’t understand. Twice now I have resisted the urge to return to my spot next to you on the bed – the feeling of lying even chastely next to you, being close enough to hear you breathe, was too much. The things that occurred to me as I watched you sleep embarrass me, only because I don’t believe a world exists where you’d ever want the same. I appreciate the ways in which you’ve shown your care, but they scare me because, in late hours, my memory of those actions, of your words, make me imagine that you love me. Before I can come up for air, back to reality, I am in a spiral that ends with my lips on yours. With you wanting me too. And it will never be.   
I told you once that you deserve the best in life. I meant it wholeheartedly. I hope in a wild, feral kind of way that in this lifetime I can be that for you. That it would mean a life for us together, out on the open ocean, sipping the finest wine I can get my hands on. Holding your hand on sunlit beaches and dancing with you in the moonlight. Making you my wife. Reveling in the honor of being your husband. To be your own personal ray of light – not fit for the world but maybe, somehow, fit just for you.   
And there I go again… the spiral. Even if it ends in my heartbreak and you find a life away from me where you enjoy all the happiness in the world – being able to live in that spiral for brief moments in my mind has been the only true joy I’ve felt in years. Even if it’s not real. Even if it’s never going to be real.   
I love you, Lizzie. And even in the silent pages of this book I can’t fathom you love me. But I adore you all the same. 

She found herself crying, her cheeks hot and her eyes prickling with tears. She found herself desperate to see his face, to gorge herself on the reality that it was really him who had written the letter.   
And was mortified to find him looking back at her.


	5. Chapter 5

The dock creaked and groaned under her feet, the noise awakening her to what she was doing. What she had done.   
She ran.   
She could feel her heartbeat quaking her chest, threatening to break through her skin, burst through her veins. She reached the end of the old wooden planks and had nowhere left to go. Briefly and absurdly she considered slipping into the water, letting the cold darkness envelope her for as long as it took to salve the stabbing burn of guilt and embarrassment that was panging in her head. Instead she sat, her legs curled against her in a childlike effort to comfort herself.   
It felt strangely like any other fight she’d had before. The moment she had met his eyes, her feet had hit the floor and she’d set out running though all she’d wanted to do was melt into his heartfelt words. But instead she felt exposed and like a wild animal she darted away. Her hopes changed direction in time with the lapping tide – in equal and alternating turns, she hoped that he would stay away and then wished more than anything that he would come find her. The waves seemed to whisper to her softly, hypnotically – come… stay… come… stay…  
She unfurled her legs, dipping her bare feet and legs into the water, letting the tide swing them back and forth, bath and forth. Moonshine glimmered on the lake and she watched the fireflies swing on the breeze, willing her breath to slow, her pulse to calm. Every wave tugged her back toward the little cabin, every fiber of her pulled by aching tendrils back toward him. But she couldn’t bring herself to spare even a glimpse behind her toward the warm light that she’d left behind her.   
By the time she heard his feet on the dock, she couldn’t be sure it was real. Her anxious mind had spent the last several moments imagining it too many times already. But there it was, the sound of approaching steps. With her head hung low, she could see his feet come to rest next to her on the dock, bare with his pants cuffed up to his calves. He groaned slightly as he lowered himself to sit, keeping a distance from her but placing his feet in the water alongside hers. Together they listened to the frogs croaking in the night air. When she felt him turn his gaze from the water to her, she met his eyes in the dim light hoping that he couldn’t see her panic.   
His eyes were kind… familiar and searching. They pleaded with her to speak and she was worried she might not have anything coherent to offer. Guilt overwhelmed her and making it all the worse was the fact that he still looked at her with such brazen love. He had saved her… and she him, but they could never muster the courage to say why, not completely anyway. And now, if she was going to do right by this man who loved her, she would have to put it to words very quickly. He had her at a disadvantage, with his thoughts so beautifully planned and penned… hers were going to sound hopeless in comparison.  
“Red… I am so sorry,” she said haltingly, her voice shaking just above a whisper. “I never should have read that.”  
Red was looking out over the water again, his teeth worrying the inside of his lip. The wrinkles that framed his eyes were deepened in thought and he raised his chin in a deep breath before he spoke.   
“It’s alright. Those letters were for you,” his voice was low and labored. “And I have done far worse to invade your privacy. I had just hoped for you to see them at perhaps a more delicate time. Perhaps never… but if we’re going to be in each other’s company for the foreseeable future I suppose you’d find out anyway, one way or another.”  
“I knew,” she said in a whisper, saying it to herself as much as she was saying it to him. “Maybe not to that extent but… I knew.” He remained still, only his chest rising and falling, for what felt like an eternity. She could feel his fear that she might dart away again and it made her flinch.  
“I didn’t mean for you to know, Lizzie. I never wanted to put the burden of my feelings on you. Because that’s what they are, a burden. And they’re mine to bear.” His signature rasp had turned mournful and fawning.  
Liz drew herself just a bit closer to him, his voice making her throat tremble. You have you say it Liz. Screw your pride, just tell him. She put her hand within an easy reach of his and like a schoolgirl on a date she prayed that he would see it and hold it in his.   
“I understand from your letter why you feel that you’re a burden. I know that you’re too damaged to accept that I care about you, but I wish you weren’t. I want to tell you so many things but I can’t take it if you push me away again. Even though you’re capable of writing such beautiful things about me… I don’t think you’re ready to hear any in return. Because you think you’re such a monster when you’re not. Because I’ve told you so many times that you were.”  
“There’s just too much between us, Lizzie. So much distrust, so much hurt. You can’t blame me for faulting myself. You’ve said it yourself that I turned your life upside down.”  
I hope that I can introduce myself to you and that I can know you in return.   
The words from his letter pushed to the front of her mind. And suddenly the thought of holding him responsible for her life’s misfortunes didn’t feel so important. Her life was fated for these things the moment she was born, a circumstance for which Red couldn’t be responsible. From which he’d only ever tried to save her.  
“I’m ready to put it away,” she said, careful not to say that she’d forget. She couldn’t promise him something she wasn’t sure she was capable of, but she wanted to try. “I’ve put you through the ringer, but I think it’s time for me to be honest with myself that I don’t care as much about that anymore as I do about becoming your partner in this thing we have together. It’s the only way we’re going to survive.”  
“What thing that we have together?” he asked, searching her eyes again.   
“All of it. The job, whatever that may be. Protecting each other. Working as a team.” Despite his best efforts to hide it, she watched the light in his eyes dim, and they dropped for just a moment away from her face and then bravely back with an earnest smile. That isn’t it, Lizzie. You know that isn’t it.  
“I care about you, Red. Separate from this job, I mean… I care about you. And you won’t stop me. I want to know you and I know that you want that too, but you have to give me a chance.”  
“That’s a lot to put aside, Lizzie, even if you want it. I don’t want to disappoint you or hurt you any more than I have.”  
She reached out the hand that he had been politely ignoring and presented it to him in stilted greeting.   
“My name is Elizabeth Keen,” she said, her voice finally confident and sure. He looked down at her hand, and smiled tentatively. And he placed his hand, rough and warm, against hers and shook it with what she was sure was a softened version of his most professional greeting.   
“Raymond Reddington,” he said gently, obviously just playing along. She didn’t let go.   
“And I love you,” she said, her voice dipping, the words sounding strange on her lips but not altogether uncomfortable. She wasn’t sure that she had meant to say it, but she was sure that she felt it. That she had been feeling it for a while now. “I don’t know what it means or where it’s going, but I love you.”   
She felt, despite their very intense surroundings, that she had just passed him a note in algebra class, asking if he loved her too. It was easy for her to envision them as two scared kids, wondering what would happen if they said the words out loud. It’s all they’d ever been, really. Two people who had never been truly loved, wondering now if maybe they’d been swimming in it all this time. For maybe the first time.  
Red’s eyes glistened in the light, shaking his head in a tender laugh as she tightened her grip on his hand, their new introduction still suspended in the air between them. He made no move to take it away and instead she felt his thumb brush against her skin like a worry stone.   
“And I think you know how I feel,” he said. She tightened her grip further.   
“I’m going to need to hear you say it. Out loud.”  
“I love you too,” he said, seeming to taste the words on his lips. Savoring it. She dropped her grip on his hand, smiling at him kindly. And in the way that you do after you see the yes circled on the shorn-edged notebook paper, she let her heart flutter contentedly although it was still raw with risk and adrenaline.   
The stars were bright and clear in the night sky and she drank it in as she felt his hand encircle hers. For what felt like a long time they sat watching the sky, quietly listening to the other breathe. It was out in the open now and she wondered if there was really anything to be done about it besides to sit with it a while. She felt unsettled, still feeling herself pulled toward him but for what purpose she had no idea. She wondered if maybe they’d sit like this until morning… but he must be tired. Her pulse was still too quick to consider sleep.   
“We should get to bed,” she suggested, hoping he’d disagree.   
“Are you tired?” Red asked.  
“No, I’m really not.”  
“Then maybe we could sit here just a little while longer. The stars are beautiful tonight and I don’t feel like sleeping.”  
She drew herself closer to him, enough to place her head on his shoulder as she had in the car. She inhaled the scent of his neck, warm and sweet in the cool air. He placed his arm around her waist and it felt like the world had shifted while they’d been sitting on this dock. Although she still had to pinch her eyes closed at the thought of what she’d done by reading his letter, she had set in motion something that made his touch feel different now compared the dozens of other times she’d felt it.   
“Is your name really Raymond Reddington?” she asked, feeling an itch to learn as much as she could now that she’d confessed her love to a man about whom she barely knew anything real. Nothing of substance that she could confirm, anyway – she still had the formality of law enforcement in her blood after all.   
“It is,” he said, his voice rumbling against her shoulder. “I’ve gone by aliases over the years, but I was born Raymond Reddington. Never Ray, even when I was a child. Always Raymond. Except to Alan Fitch, oddly enough. I had told him so many times over the years how much I hated it.” He sounded wistful. “I wrote you that list of things, prior to the letter, because I don’t want you to go through what I had to when he died. I’ve thought of him often lately.”  
“Don’t talk about dying,” she said. “I’ve had my heart broken too much this year. I can’t go through it again.”  
“I won’t leave you if I can help it Lizzie,” he said. She felt his hand on her cheek as he pulled away to look her in the eye, a devout intensity breaking the surface. “I won’t leave you.”   
“We won’t leave each other,” she said. Before he may have chafed at the idea of her devotion, but this time he nodded, his jaw pulsing anxiously. She leaned in to close the still palpable distance between them, waiting a moment for him to do the same. She reached out to touch his face, exploring the soft bulge of his cheek, the ridge of his jaw. She caressed his lip under her thumb, slick and plump against her skin. She watched the delicate skin there that she had admired discreetly as it pulled under her stroke. His eyes darted across her face, his brows furrowed into a question. His entire face seemed to ask silently if she was sure. If this was what she wanted. And she answered him with a kiss. One that she had imagined with increasing frequency as of late.   
She felt his surprise, his sharp intake of breath followed closely by a contented noise in his chest that cut through the night air. His lips were warm under hers, comforting her in a deep, primal way. She parted her lips, not satisfied to just feel his lips against hers. She wanted to study them as if it might not all be real – that tomorrow she would wake up and it all would have been a dream. And she wanted to remember everything. She touched the delicately textured skin of his neck, ran her fingers over the scratchy stubble that was left of his hair. She slowed her lips, pressing staccato kisses against his lips, letting them linger.   
“I love you,” he whispered against her parted lips, taking her face with his palm. “I love you.”  
“I love you too,” she said, breathless.   
She felt him smile under her kiss.   
“What?” she asked.   
“What was your name again?” he said, cheekily. She returned his smile.   
“To you, it’s Lizzie,” she said with a laugh.   
“Funny,” he said, getting up and reaching for her hand to lead her inside. “I’ve always liked that name.”


End file.
